


There's Something Wrong With Miss Granger

by Seanymphe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: F/M, ill edit the tags later okay
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-22
Updated: 2021-01-21
Packaged: 2021-03-13 16:35:10
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,301
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28906458
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Seanymphe/pseuds/Seanymphe
Summary: If you dig deep enough, you'll strike oil, and if you peel back a scab, you'll find fresh blood.While cleaning out Grimmauld Place in the summer of 1995, Hermione comes across a most unusual locket.
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle, Hermione Granger/Tom Riddle | Voldemort
Comments: 21
Kudos: 66





	There's Something Wrong With Miss Granger

Have you ever thought you were going mad?

Have you ever swore you saw something move in your reflection? Thought a car was following you as it took the same exit you did going home? Have the clothes in the chair across your darkened room ever looked too humanoid for comfort? Have you ever held a knife for just a moment too long and thought, ' _what if?'_

Have you ever felt out of control? Paranoid, hysterical, angry. Have you ever been afraid of yourself, of what you might do?

And what do you do, in that moment? How do you handle that feeling - that _madness_? Keep brushing your teeth, keep combing your hair. Drive home. Maybe take a random turn first, if you can justify the cost for gas. Turn on the light, double check you're alone, and go back to bed. Drop the blade with a harsh scolding for the surely uncharacteristic savagery of your thoughts.

It never works, does it? That _feeling_ , the racing heart, the twitching fingers. It won't leave, no matter how nicely you ask, no matter how much you scream or beg or plead. It's a part of you, as much as your blood or your lungs.

There is depravity hidden in the back of every human mind, but we don't call it that; we call it madness.

There's a violence to us all that we like to pretend we've evolved from. We haven't.

It's in our most basic instincts, though most of us repress these urges much like we repress everything else. We take no time to ponder the great ' _What If?_ ' dismissing it as quickly as it comes.

But it doesn't go away, it's merely concealed.

If you dig deep enough, you'll strike oil, and if you peel back a scab, you'll find fresh blood.

And that is where our story starts.

* * *

It was always cold. That was the first thing she noticed about it.

Well, the first thing she noticed about wearing it, anyways. The real first thing she noticed was that it was ugly - the large gold chain and oversized locket pendant reminded her far too much of the jewelry in the old antique stores her grandmother used to drag her to.

She'd found it over the summer, while scouring the bowels of Grimmauld place. A curious little trinket, seemingly unremarkable, but there was something about it that called to her in the same way her wand had - the same way the darkest books of the restricted section had. It was magic, somehow. It had to be. There was no other reason for it to be hidden away in Regulus' old room - the idea that the Heir of the most ancient and noble house of Black would've held onto a _filthy muggle_ locket was almost laughable.

There was no identifiable reason she'd put it on, aside from perhaps curiosity. It very plainly wasn't to her taste and more importantly, wasn't hers to take in the first place. Still, she had, regardless of her own reasoning about why she shouldn't've. It'd felt natural, the motion as thoughtless as running a hand through her hair or pulling her wand from her pocket.

The same couldn't be said for taking it off. The second thing she noticed was that, despite the discomfort she felt, the icy chill it left where it rested against her sternum, she found herself inexplicably unwilling to remove it.

No matter how long the metal remained pressed to her skin, it never seemed to absorb any of her body heat. It continued to leave a harsh, frigid shiver as it slid across her chest. It almost seemed to ache.

In her shame of having stolen it, she'd made sure to keep it under her shirt at all times. While she knew she _should_ just take it off, put it back - she could hear Kreacher wandering about, looking for it, crying about how _poor master Regulus_ _would be so angry with Kreacher_ \- despite her guilt, her fingers never lifted except to readjust the chain.

Both the nagging shame and the necklace remained, tucked neatly away beneath her collar.

* * *

Over the summer, her nights had become restless.

Whereas before, she'd rarely dreamt, simply slipping away into a comfortable darkness, her once restful sleep became plagued with the sound of screams, the body of a boy in yellow and black, and a hideous creature she'd come to know as synonymous with death. Harry had described Lord Voldemort as something so inhuman, she couldn't quite grasp what he must look like. Nevertheless, her mind tried, conjuring images of distorted faces and serpentine eyes.

Each morning she awoke with one grim reminder that her world was no longer safe.

But one night, following her newfound discovery of the locket, the dreams changed.

There were no red eyes, no screams, no sobbing.

There was grey. Grey stone walls. Itchy grey wool clothes that scratched at her limbs and tore with far too little wear. Seven grey rocks piled against a windowsill. Bedsheets that, while appeared to have once been white, had stained grey over time too.

Now, when she woke, it wasn't with terror, though she felt that same exhaustion as before, but an unnerving confusion.

Still, anything was better than the nightmares.

* * *

The first time she heard the voice, she wasn't really even sure that she heard it.

In the Prefects compartment of the Hogwarts Express, she'd attempted to busy herself with a book between rounds. Ron, predictably, was more invested in his chocolate frog packaging than what was going on around them.

Seeming unaware of the way Pansy and Draco huddled together, snickering and laughing as they shot pointed glances towards the Gryffindor pair, Ron murmured an apology before excusing himself to the toilet.

"Did you read what Skeeter wrote about her over the summer?" Pansy whispered, though it was easily audible in the near silence of the train car. "Krum dumped her!"

Draco sneered. "Hardly a surprise though, is it?" Casting Hermione a clear and direct glance, they held eye contact. She raised her chin, as if to say _do your worst_. Sneering, he licked his lips before taunting, "Bet he got what he wanted from her, though."

Hot blood rushed to her face. Rather than let them see, she twisted her head, pretending to be newly immersed in the content of her book. Her other hand fisted the fabric of her woolen skirt until her knuckles turned white. Again and again, she told herself it wasn't true - _it wasn't_ \- so it didn't matter. She remembered her mother's voice telling her _rise above it_ , _be the bigger person_. _Let them think what they want. You know your truth_.

It felt hollow. Insincere.

She even argued to herself that it was _better_ this way, that if people thought they'd broken up(nevermind that they were never officially together, as she so frequently had to remind Viktor), she'd stop getting jealous girls sending her hexed letters or hateful jinxes in the halls.

The sound of squealing, high pitched laughter rang throughout the train car.

"You really think he'd want that?" Pansy snickered, "I mean, he's got better options, you know."

Draco halfheartedly shrugged. "Maybe he lost a bet."

At that, one of the eavesdropping Ravenclaws smothered a small laugh.

This time, it was harder to remember all the things her mother had told her about bullies, all the reasons it didn't matter.

It wasn't good enough.

Her wand felt heavy in her robe pocket. Too heavy. And her fingers suddenly felt restless.

Surely no one would notice if she transferred her wand to her sleeve instead. She wouldn't even have to take it out, not fully. Just the grip and a subtle motion would be enough to direct just a teensy bit of magic. They'd be none the wiser.

Those Invisible Bowflies sure had been a problem that summer, just ask the Daily Prophet. They'd written all about how their bite was _remarkably_ similar to the effect of a particularly nasty stinging hex. It sure would've been a great inconvenience, had one gotten on board the Hogwarts express.

With only a subtle shift, her wand was in her sleeve, the very tip of the vinewood just barely poking out through her fingers. She felt magic humming impatiently under her skin, much like the first time she'd held it in Ollivanders. Insistent. Ready. _Eager_.

The movements were simple. A small twist, a swish, finished off with a jab. Nothing extravagant enough to draw attention. The incantation was on the back of her tongue, though she knew better than to let it pass her lips, holding it at the forefront of her mind instead.

Just as she began the swish, she heard the voice.

It was so quiet, she barely registered it. So entirely calm, it sounded completely at ease as it whispered the word,

" _Inciso"_

Before she could register what had happened, before she could even blink, Pansy screamed, the sleeve of her robe profusely leaking blood. Panicked, she pulled back the fabric to reveal a nasty gash in her forearm, right where Hermione had aimed the stinging hex.

* * *

Hastily excusing herself wasn't the least suspicious thing she could've done, but finding help turned out to be an easy excuse.

And she did(while they didn't have a mediwitch on board, the trolley witch knew how to cast a few standard healing spells), but first, Hermione stopped into the loo.

After she finished hyperventilating, swearing to herself she'd _never_ experiment with nonverbal casting again, one thought remained.

_Cover your tracks._

Before anyone could check her wand, she'd had the quick wit to cast a simple shoe tying charm, as well as a _Scrougify_ to get the dirt off her boots and a mending charm to the fraying hem of her sleeves. If, by some chance, they tried to investigate - Filch couldn't, she knew; he was a Squib. They'd need another teacher to do it, and what were the odds of that? Slim, she hoped, and besides, who would suspect her? - her wand would be clear. The last three spells she'd cast were perfectly benign.

In the back of her mind, a memory from second year reared its ugly head.

_The Chamber of Secrets had just been opened. Tucked into an empty classroom, she, Harry, and Ron had huddled together after being asked about what had happened to Mrs. Norris._

" _D'you think I should have told them about the voice I heard?" Harry asked, squinting as he glanced between the two of them._

" _No," Ron answered without hesitation, "Hearing voices no one else can hear isn't a good sign, even in the Wizarding world."_

Stepping off the train, Hermione couldn't hold back a shudder. It had to've been an accident. She just needed to be more focused, more in control of her thoughts while casting, more careful with her practice. That's all.

As Ron called her over to an empty carriage, she plastered on a smile.

* * *

To say there was a problem was putting it far too mildly.

Professor Umbridge was introduced during the sorting ceremony, following the newly grim song of the sorting hat. She worked for the Ministry. That, in and of itself, was warning enough that the woman wouldn't have the student's best interests at heart.

Her first lesson, in which she had written,

_Defense Against the Dark Arts_

_A Return to Basic Principles_

Across the chalkboard in neat cursive writing, only served to add insult to injury.

Despite going on to describe their previous teachings as 'fragmented' and 'disrupted,' the hiring of two death eaters and a fraud, as well as the consistent danger posed to the student body, proved less of a concern to her than the lack of consistency and Ministry approved curriculum.

According to her course aims, defensive magical was meant to be purely theoretical.

With true Gryffindor boldness, Hermione held her hand high in the air, gaze fixed firmly on the Professor. After a small eternity, she finally caught the woman's attention. Her concerns were expressed plainly, without tact.

It only went downhill from there with the reveal that they were not to be practicing magic _at all._

The entire class erupted with protests, but none so vocal as Harry.

"Who do you imagine wants to attack children like yourselves?" The Professor's voice dripped in honeyed condescension.

"Hmm, let's think… Maybe _Lord Voldemort_?"

Ron gasped. Lavender let out a noise halfway caught between a squeal and a scream. As Hermione's breath hitched, she felt the locket shake against her chest, as though it felt the same cold outrage as herself.

Harry never knew when to quit, when to keep his mouth shut. In a way, it was admirable, but the blood drained from her face as Umbridge ordered him detention.

The triumph in her eyes wasn't something that could be so easily ignored.

* * *

When Harry came back from his detention, he'd said all she'd had him do was write lines.

Hermione couldn't even articulate her relief. Boring and tedious as it may be, he could've been subjected to far worse.

Or so she thought - she'd been more than a tad bit angry to learn from _Ron_ what Umbridge had done to Harry.

_I must not tell lies_

Despite having done her best to tend to the wound with murtlap essence, but there was no healing it. It wasn't just cut, it was cursed. Designed to scar and humiliate for life.

It was appalling. The school had a policy against corporal punishment. Surely, _surely_ , something could be done to put a stop to this, to have that vile _toad_ of a woman fired.

Still, there was something else more pressing.

After his final detention, he'd said she was evil. Twisted. Of that, there was no doubt; the woman was clearly sadistic. But then - then he said that she'd touched his arm, and his scar hurt.

It went without saying why exactly this was a concern.

Though, he was quick to follow it up with, "But, I dunno. It's been hurting a lot lately. All summer. Almost like it did last year. I - I don't know. I don't know why. It hurt on the train, too. I was fine, and then all the sudden it hurt. Came out of nowhere."

Hermione was quick to interject, telling him he ought to tell Dumbledore. He wouldn't. Even as she argued, insisting, her reasoning was met only with vehement protests.

Frustrated, he turned towards the stairs. Quick to follow, she reached out to grip at his sleeve.

He fell, slumping forward with a startled gasp.

"Harry?" His hand flew to his forehead, clutching the obviously aching scar. "Harry!"

Stumbling back, her grip fell from his wrist. With heavy panting, he gripped the railing until his knuckles turned white. When he looked up, seemingly recovered from the sudden onset of agony, he looked around the room with narrowed, harsh eyes.

"Harry," her voice was weak, frightened, as she stepped closer again, "we can go see Dumbledore now. We _have_ to tell him about this."

Forming a sneer, he thoughtlessly retorted, "Yeah, that's the only part of me Dumbledore cares about, isn't it, my scar?"

"Don't say that, it's not true!" She nearly cringed at the sound of her own cracking voice.

He seemed to hear none of it.

With one more suspicious glance around the room, Harry shook his head before heading up the stairs.

* * *

Over the following weeks, Hermione was half convinced she was going mad.

The dreams had gotten worse. No longer was it merely monotonous grey, but caves echoing with screams, mutilated rabbits hanging from rafters, snakes that could speak. In her nightmares, she emphatically wished for the ability to shut her eyes, to cover her ears, to hide away from the terror. In these dreams, she relished it. There was heat, familiar pride, blooming in her chest.

When she finally awoke, it wasn't pride that heated her chest, but bile rising from her stomach. Four nights in a row, she'd woken and run to the bathroom to retch.

She'd heard Lavender joke that it was probably morning sickness - she'd gotten a discreet trip-toed jinx for that.

It wasn't just the dreams that changed.

It was harder to control her temper. On more than one occasion, Ron had slunk back into his chair after being on the receiving end of one of her harsh and undeserved scoldings. When she'd lashed out at Lavender for hogging the bathroom, the girl threw a tampon in her face. Harry had taken to avoiding her almost entirely.

Later, she'd admit to being snippy, too quick to rile, but at the time the hostility felt thoughtless. That, she dismissed as stress. Helplessness induced agitation caused by her infuriating new Professor.

But it wasn't only the anger that frightened her.

She couldn't quite point to it, but something in her head wasn't right. It was too subtle to accurately articulate, but she could feel the difference like an irregular heartbeat. The thoughts sounded like her own, and even almost felt like it. They were things she'd think - albeit, perhaps with different phrasing, with more bite, but regardless, it was undeniably off. Like hearing your own voice played back to you, it sounded strange. Unnatural. Wrong.

Was it possible for the voice inside your head to change?

The library, for once, held no answers. Poisoning? So unlikely it bordered on impossible. Magically muddled mind? Again, not likely. She could still recount her childhood, her friends, and had all sorts of momentos to prove it wasn't doctored. Hysteria? The idea that the problem lied in her _womb_ , of all places, was laughable.

The voice - the unnerving _Hermione_ voice she'd not yet grown accustomed to - spoke again.

_Try the restricted section._

She didn't have a pass. This year, Umbridge was making it damn near bloody impossible to get one. There were very few passable excuses to need a dark text for charms or transfiguration, after all.

Unable to resist considering it(what other option was there?), she bit her lip and shyly glanced around the room.

It's not like it was warded, and, if anyone did happen to see her, who would stop to ask? She was a school Prefect, and notoriously studious to boot. If anyone would have a pass, it'd be her. Not to mention, the library was almost empty.

As if of their own volition, her feet seemed to make the decision for her, slowly rising from her seat, twisting behind a bookcase as her fingers flittered over the spines of the books.

No one would think anything of it.

She slipped into the restricted section silently, drawing no attention. Though she couldn't remember casting a silencing charm, the idle thought passed quickly, without further acknowledgment as she looked over the darkest of tomes in the castle, only to realize she had no idea where to even _begin_ looking.

Without any better ideas, she began to wonder. Best not to waste the opportunity; she was already here.

The section containing texts on dark creatures was passed without hesitation, as were the sections for blood magic, ritual sacrifice, and theoretical magic. While another time, she'd have loved to scour to her heart's content, she didn't want to linger longer than necessary and potentially risk drawing attention. As she passed a shelf containing knowledge of cursed objects, her fingers twitched. Turning, a single book caught her eye.

_Haunting, Transference, and Possession_

* * *

Grabbing it, she left the library with only one, single book and a hammering in her ribcage.

The locket.

How she didn't realize it sooner was beyond her. A dark artifact, in a pureblood household, that had somehow convinced her to _steal_ and _wear_ it - honestly, she didn't know which of the two was worse, the breach in her morality, or the complete _stupidity_ in doing so - and suddenly she began feeling strange, hearing voices?

It was a relief, if only because it meant she wasn't mad. _Temporarily stupid_ , sure, but not mad.

Incessant curiosity was the only reason she didn't take it off and burn it right that second. At least, now that she knew, it wouldn't have the same power over her, she reasoned.

Muggles had all sorts of ways of contacting spirits. Ouija boards, seances, pendulums, even electronic equipment.

Hermione took a simpler approach.

Alone in the locked bathroom outside the girl's dorms, she hesitantly called out, "Hello?"

She felt stupid, though she'd admit it to no one but herself. Even if she wasn't mad, she surely looked the part right now.

The only sound was the water slowly dripping from the faucet.

With more authority, she spoke again, "I know you're here. Show yourself."

Again, the faucet dripped.

Frustrated, she finally reached for that _hideous_ locket, grabbing it pendant first with every intention of ripping it clean off her neck.

But then she heard it, right behind her ear.

" _Stop."_

It was the same voice she'd heard on the train. Undoubtedly.

Whipping around, she pulled her wand. She wasn't sure what she expected to see - an apparition, perhaps. Maybe some smoke. Some wildly moving objects, or for the mirror to suddenly shatter. _Something._

The bathroom was still as it'd ever been.

"Speak again," she said, gripping her wand like a lifeline and speaking with more courage than she felt, "If you don't want me to take this necklace off, and toss it to the bottom of the Black Lake, where no one will _ever_ find it, you'd better speak up now."

It took only a second.

" _Please._ "

The voice was distinctly masculine, despite the lack of any visible body.

" _I can't bear the silence again. I've tried not to disturb you."_

Still refusing to lower her wand, she continued uselessly monitoring the bathroom, stepping back until she'd cornered herself against a wall. "You hurt Pansy," she said, refusing to allow any room for doubt. She expected a denial, and then to rip that blasted locket off and do whatever she had to to destroy it. She didn't expect,

" _I'm sorry."_

Her breath hitched.

" _I - I don't have an excuse, I'm afraid. For so long, it's been silent. Nothing but the darkness of that house. To finally be free of that, it's a bit overwhelming. I saw in your head, all the things she said about you. I got angry. I confess myself regretful. Accepting my mistake, I've tried to be quiet. I don't mean to bother you, miss."_

Breaking her composure, she had the audacity to laugh. This man - creature? - _thing_ \- had been in her head, scouring her most private thoughts as though it were just the morning paper, and still had the audacity to perform the niceties, to call her 'miss'?

" _Involuntary imprisonment is no reason to abandon chivalry,"_ it sniffed, clearly displeased by her amusement.

At that, she broke down into hysterics. 'Chivalry' - is that was his concern was?

" _Not my primary concern, no,"_ he countered easily, growing more and more annoyed with her unspoken monologue, " _but the men of my time knew to treat women with respect. Such a pity to see the way you've devolved."_

She got the impression that, if he had a face, she'd see him sneering. If she hadn't already, she surely looked mad now. Wand out, wild eyes, laughing hysterically alone in a bathroom.

Treating women with respect - that certainly hadn't applied to Pansy.

Quieting her involuntary laughter, she wiped the tears from her eyes as she fixated on a singular section of what he'd said. "What do you mean 'men of your time'?"

The voice didn't answer immediately, but as her hand reached up her throat, it hastily offered,

" _It's difficult to articulate. You understand the oddity of my situation, I'm sure."_

"Hardly, given that I don't understand your situation at all, and you've yet to tell me much if anything." Though she waited, there was no response. "What do you mean, 'men of your time'"?" she repeated, blunt.

" _I've been locked away,"_ it said quite simply, " _Surely, you've noticed."_ The last bit was almost dry, biting. He was getting impatient with her prodding.

Ignoring the snark, she probed further. "How long?"

" _That's a bit difficult to say,"_ it countered, drawling the words with uncertainty, " _I_ was _twenty five. But that was quite a long time ago, and it's not as though I've a body to count the years for me."_

"And what year was that?" Eager to cut straight to the point, she pressed with insistence, "What year were you twenty five?" There was no reason for this evasion if he truly meant no harm. He'd been in her head - he could've easily told for himself what year it was. The Wizarding world may not have much in the way of math classes, but this was simple enough that even the most incompetent should be able to manage.

Part of attributed the possibility that he felt some shame, some kind of weakness, but it wasn't enough to override her suspicions of him - _it_.

" _...1952."_

At first, she was quiet, head whirring as she processed the information. It was quite a long time, she supposed. To live so long in dark silence - she'd go mad. Anyone would.

" _I'm not mad_ ," he argued, with no shame about reading her train of thought, " _I'm resilient."_

Rather than argue the semantics, she resumed her questioning. "You're a person, then?"

" _I was. Am, perhaps. I'm not sure what qualifies for personhood these days. Legality is funny that way. Politics is just a big word game."_

Again with the evasion, with the indirection. There was every chance he could be lying - she refused to allow herself to forget that.

Fed up with the uselessness of the conversation, she pulled at the chain. It ripped at her tangled curls like gripping hands, though she ignored the pain as it pulled over her head with determination; the faster she got this _thing_ off of her, the better. As she reached for her bag, it spoke again.

" _Hermione, stop."_

This time, there was force behind the voice. A previously lacking urgency. It was just convincing enough to cause her to halt.

" _Please, just listen to me. I mean you no harm. I don't have eyes or ears - everything I know, I know because_ you _know. If you denied me that I'd be left as…"_ he paused, seeming to have to come to terms with the word, " _...powerless, as I was in that drawer. I spent decades locked away in nothing but darkness. Please, don't send me back."_

There was a tightness in her chest that made it hard to breathe. She wasn't unfamiliar with it. It was the same discomfort she felt when Harry talked about his parents, or when she saw the house elves working.

Pity.

If she wanted to, she could drop the chain and let it fall into her bag.

She should, of course. There was no denying that. It'd be torture to him, to do so, but it wasn't her fault he was in the situation, and he'd hurt someone already.

_"It was me who directed you to that book, who brought you to the restricted section. I wanted you to know. I don't mean for this to be dishonest. We can help each other."_

Pansy had, admittedly, deserved it.

Looking at where the pendant hovered over her open bookbag, she knew she should drop it. That would be the right thing to do. That would be the smart thing to do. By all accounts, it shouldn't have even been a question.

She knew, _she knew_ , what she _should_ do.

And yet, she didn't.

* * *

Whether he was grateful for her mercy or merely trying to put an end to her insistent interrogation remained undetermined, but either way, he answered more of her questions.

He'd been imprisoned by a dark wizard, losing his body and by extension, his magic in the process. There was no way to free himself. Shoved crudely away, he'd been left to rot, unable to so much as move, to perceive the world around him, as time passed with no indication anyone would ever return for him.

It was heartbreaking to hear of such torture, but the analytical skeptic in her still felt forced to verify its validity.

There were a few problems in the process - the primary one being that he refused to give her his full name, citing that it could "put her in danger." Presumably by the man who'd imprisoned him. On that, he refused to budge.

He'd said she could call him Tom. It could've been a fake name - it was common enough to be a convenient choice - but it was better than nothing, and it gave her a place to start looking.

The library had an entire section just for old newspapers. Mostly The Daily Prophet, which was by all accounts a biased source(if the things they'd printed about her last year weren't evidence enough, the rubbish they'd been spewing about Harry this year definitely was), but it was a source nevertheless.

Missing persons articles from that year led her to one notable name: Thomas Rogers, born 1927, disappeared in the summer of 1952. A muggleborn Ministry worker, he'd been making waves in his department for his staunch opposition to the nepotism he believed corrupted the Wizarding world, from the smallest among them all the way up to the Wizengamont.

She could see Orion Black - the former owner of the house she'd taken the locket from, a man from a traditional Wizarding family, manically devoted to the belief of blood purity - targeting such a man.

Further, she checked school records. He'd been a Hufflepuff, and, despite having been one of the first petrified back when the Chamber of Secrets first opened, he still did quite well on his exams in the following years.

When she'd asked the locket - _Tom_ , she could comfortably call him that now - about it, his only response was a noncommittal hum.

With her curtains drawn around her bed, she held the locket close to her chest. "I was petrified when the Chamber opened again a few years ago," she whispered despite the built in silencing charm, for it felt right to do so, "I know what it's like to feel targeted, despite being one of the most competent people in the room. The disbelief, the skepticism. Feeling like you have to prove yourself, not just as equal, but better than them."

Though he didn't respond, she felt heat in her palm where the locket met skin. For once, it wasn't icy to the touch. Rather, it nearly burned.

 _Anger._ He was angry. Resentful.

She knew the feeling well, having felt it near daily since the first time Draco had called her _mudblood_.

With a deep breath, she clutched the locket tighter, ignoring the heated discomfort. "I want to help you. I want to help you get a body again."

It was a moment before he responded, sounding more detached than she'd yet to hear him

" _You have your OWLs this year. Don't worry yourself with me. If you want to help me, just keep me close."_

She frowned. "I want to help," she repeated, lacing the words with urgency and outrage, "You know, they call me the brightest witch of my age. If there's a spell, or a ritual, or - or some potion I have to immerse you in, I could figure it out. Trust me, I can."

" _I have no doubt that you could,"_ he almost purred, the soothing hum reverberating throughout her ribcage as though he were the very blood pumping through her veins, " _But we have time. For now, worry about you. You're already helping me more than you know."_

Though it left a bitter taste in her mouth, she didn't press the issue further.

**Author's Note:**

> yes this is an old story that I deleted and am now reposting


End file.
